Page 76 of Whistle
Crazy Dolores is here.
Okay, that was a bit harsh, Annie knew. The woman was suffering from some form of dementia that she couldn’t help. But that didn’t mean Annie felt any better about having her in the house.
She went to Charlie’s room, found the door already open. The moonlight that was coming through the skylight was filtering through other windows, so rather than flip on a switch and startle him, Annie went right to his bed to wake him.
The covers were turned back. The bed was empty.
Annie tamped down an overwhelming sense of panic. Time for a change of strategy. No more pussyfooting about. She ran from the room, flipped on the hallway lights, and shouted: “Charlie!Charlie!”
No answer.
That didn’t have to mean he wasn’t in the house. She thought back to the sleepwalking episodes after John had died, how a brass band wouldn’t have brought Charlie back to the real world. She’d already poked her head into the studio and found it empty, so she checked the bathroom, and when he wasn’t there she ran down the stairs, flipping every light on along the way.
That open door did not bode well, and with Charlie missing, several possibilities presented themselves. Charlie had opened it and left on his own, either awake or in a dream state. A stranger had enteredthe house and Charlie was in hiding. Or someone had entered the house... and left with Charlie.
Annie ran through the open doorway and onto the porch, where the light was already on. There, at the foot of the porch steps, was Charlie’s bicycle. The thought had crossed her mind that if he could sleepwalk, he might also be able to sleep-cycle. But seeing the bike didn’t do much to put her mind at ease.
Again, she shouted: “Charlie!”
Nothing.
She ran inside, checking the kitchen, the basement, calling out her son’s name every few seconds. She turned on the outdoor lights that illuminated the backyard and went out there, the cold, dewy grass tickling the soles of her feet. She ran to the shed where Charlie had found the box of trains, opened the door and looked inside, squinted, struggling to see in the dark.
Charlie was not there.
The outdoor lights only illuminated to the edge of the woods. She looked into the dark, foreboding trees and felt a sense of despair wash over her.
Ihave tocall the police.
She ran back into the house and up to her room, where her phone was charging on the bedside table. She grabbed it, hit 911. The moment a dispatcher answered, she said:
“My name is Annie Blunt and I’m at 11318 Scoutland Road and my son is missing!”
The dispatcher wanted details. Annie put the phone on speaker and tossed it onto the bed, trying her best to answer the dispatcher’s questions while she got into her jeans, pulled a sweater on over her head, and slipped her feet into a pair of running shoes, not bothering with socks.
She grabbed the phone again and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” the dispatcher asked.
“Looking for him, what do you think?”
“Ma’am, stay at the house until the police—”
But Annie had ended the call.
She grabbed her keys from a decorative bowl on the front hall table and was out the door and in her car in seconds. All she could think to do was drive. Maybe Charlie was sleepwalking along the road, and if he was, she needed to find him before some driver coming home after too much to drink wandered onto the shoulder and—
“Shut up!” she said to herself. “Shut up shut up shut up!”
She hit thestart enginebutton on the center console, put the high beams on, and guided the car down the drive to the road. When she reached it, she had a decision to make.
Left or right.
Right would take her in the direction of Fenelon. Left would take her to that railway crossing, maybe half a mile up.
Annie turned left.
She drove slowly, window down, shouting out her son’s name every ten yards or so. She scanned the road from shoulder to shoulder.
